


Interim Conversations

by NeverwinterThistle



Series: This Place is a Shelter [1]
Category: BioShock
Genre: M/M, bonding with the voice in the radio, no spoilers beyond Arcadia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 13:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1307041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winding green vines creep their way up the walls and the air smells of roses; at his feet, the Splicers are circling. Jack sits still and shakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interim Conversations

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for a panic attack, if that's something you're not cool with reading. And a shoutout to that one Houdini Splicer in Arcadia: you're a dick.

Winding green vines creep their way up the walls and the air smells of roses; at his feet, the Splicers are circling. Jack sits still and shakes.

 

"You still there?" crackles the radio. "Can you hear me, boyo? I'm not seeing you on any of the cameras, what happened?"

 

He doesn't reply. He never does, though the button to do so is there and clearly labelled. Inviting him to speak. But that's the problem, isn't it? What happens if he does, and the radio is silent? He has a balance formed with Atlas, with the voice in the radio that guides him like a lantern in darkness. If Jack speaks, the scales may tip, and the silence may switch sides.

 

There are times when he wonders if he's as mad as the slavering hordes with their melted faces, who reach for him and croon. His head is full to bursting with fragments of thought and wisps of memory he can't pin down; it seems to him that madness must feel like this. Like fraying. Who _is_ he?

 

"I know you're there, I've spotted that group of Splicers that has you pinned down. Blasted goddamn monsters. Have you considered setting the lot of them on fire?"

 

Yes, he has. Tactically speaking he has the advantage, and there are at least five different methods he could employ to remove the threat and be on his way; Jack doesn't know how he works this out, only that he does. He looks for the source and it slips through his fingers. One more thing he doesn't understand.

 

He's shaking too badly to throw straight, and taking the time to properly aim a fireball would require him to stick his head over the edge and look down. They'd see him. They'd know he was there. And they'd never let him leave.

 

"You feeling alright?" Atlas asks. "Did one of them get to you?"

 

Jack pulls his feet in closer and leans against the stones at his back. Below his ledge, the Splicers chatter: _"Is he still there?"_ and _"I just wanted to-"_ and _"-for the Bible told me-"_ and _"Why did you cut me?"_ It's a cacophony, a deluge of voices that giggle and cajole and threaten-

 

He closes his eyes and waits in the dark. If he can't see them, they can't see him. And then maybe they'll leave him alone.

 

The radio crackles. "I'm starting to get a little worried here," Atlas tells him. "You don't usually just vanish like this. Talk to me, would you kindly? I might be able to send you supplies if you're hurt, but first you have to let me know what's broken."

 

_I am_ , Jack think, his fingers already creeping towards the radio. _And I don't think your bandages will hold me together_.

 

"Hello," he says, and the radio goes silent.

 

Jack waits. Curls in on himself as tight as he can and wishes his heart would stop pounding. He's absurdly glad of the Splicers and their pleas ( _ADAM_ and _hold me_ and _come down_ ) for drowning out the silence left by an absence of Atlas.

 

The radio hisses back to life and Jack would swear that his heart skips a beat.

 

"So you _can_ talk! I won't lie to you, I was starting to wonder."

 

_I thought you wouldn't reply_ suddenly seems like a very stupid thing to say. Like so many things in Jack's life, it doesn't make sense, and he's left fumbling for something that does. "I like your voice better," he says, and finds it to be true. "It's safe."

 

"That's kind of you to say." There's a tremor in Atlas' voice that might be laughter, but he doesn't make an issue of it. "So tell me, what're you up to? Looking for ammunition? EVE? Why'd you let the Splicers get to you?"

 

_"This is my territory!"_ one of the Splicers shouts. It's all the response Atlas is likely to get. The alternative is trying to explain.

 

_There was a man back there who vanished when I approached. I turned and looked and threw lightning at the air, but he was always behind me. He threw me off. He popped in and out of nowhere; he made so much noise when he died. I ran, but they're all still chasing me._

 

There is something terribly wrong with his lungs, his hands, his _mind_. He's unaccountably dizzy and dazed as a result. Jack hides on his ledge, wraps a hand around the radio, and wishes he could remember what safe places felt like. If he ever had any, they've long since vanished with the rest of his past. And that might be the most frightening thing of all.

 

"I'm scared," he says at last.

 

"Of what?" Atlas says, audibly startled. "A few Splicers? You must've killed off dozens by now, and they never bothered you before."

 

_Everything_ , Jack wants to tell him. _The ceiling is too low and the walls are too close. There's water everywhere; will the city collapse? These people want to bleed me dry. And worst of all-_ "I don't remember things. Important things. I have...blank places where they should be; it feels like I _can't_ look too closely. Something won't let me."

 

"Probably for the best then. You might be happier not knowing."

 

"So much is missing. And what there is, I can't be sure of."

 

"You could start by telling me your name," Atlas says reasonably. "Might make us both feel better, if I knew what to call you."

 

"My passport says 'Jack'." His scepticism must show. He hears a rustle through the radio, like papers being shoved unceremoniously aside.

 

"Does it? Well then, _Jack_ , I'll let you in on a secret: names are changeable. A name is the least of your troubles. You don't like this one, pick another, we'll use that instead. Treat it like... a coat, or a hat. Wear the one that suits the occasion." Atlas pauses for a moment and then adds quickly, "You'd be surprised the sorts of things I've picked up in the fight against Ryan."

 

Jack considers the merits of this advice, and finds he doesn't care to make any changes. Not in the least because he can't think of anything to replace what he has. And his name sounds so much more natural when Atlas says it. He'll keep it, he decides, and feels a bit more stable. "Jack is fine."

 

"So that's a start. And memories are overrated; leave the past behind you, that's my motto. One of them, anyway." The rustling comes again, and Jack wonders where Atlas actually is. An office of sorts? A command centre? A safehouse? Somewhere he can lick his wounds and mourn the loss of his family. He hides the grief well, but maybe he's had a lot of practice.

 

"Most of what makes up your average person isn't their memories," Atlas continues, and Jack clings to his every word. "It's the other things. You know, the things they're really passionate about. In my case, it's seeing Ryan dead for his sins, and Rapture saved from a watery grave. Suppose you could say my passion is vengeance, and revolution. For other people it's different. Money, power, the thrill of the game... Anyway, those aren't things you need memories for. They just are."

 

"I don't think I have many things like that."

 

"No? Nothing makes you happy?

 

Jack considers this. He doesn't have much use for money beyond trading it for ammunition, and he's not all that sure what _power_ feels like. If there exists a game that thrills him, he hasn't played it, or any other kind for that matter.

 

Arcadia isn't so bad, he supposes. If not for the Splicers, he could be quite happy here; it's a vast improvement on Neptune's Bounty, at least. _Yes_ , he thinks. _There are good things in this place, though I'm sure Ryan is doing his best to stomp all over them._

 

"I like the flowers here," he admits.

 

"Really." Atlas says. His voice fades out, as if he's turning his head away. "He likes the goddamn flowers. Unbelievable. And this is the man I'm counting on to take down Andrew Ryan."

 

"They're nice," Jack says, a little defensively. He feels an odd heat swelling inside his chest, spreading to his face and making him shift uncomfortably. "They don't try to kill me, or tell the Splicers where I am. They're just...there. I like the colours. I don't remember ever having seen anything so _bright_."

 

He hears Atlas give a sigh. "Alright, I suppose I'll grant you that. The flowers are nice. Are you happy now?"

 

"Come and see them. Come and find me, we could-" Jack swallows and stops, because his mind is suddenly blank. He doesn't know what he wants. He's cold and shaky, and Atlas is just a voice in the radio.

 

"Would if I could, boyo. Jack. Nowhere else I'd rather be, trust me." He sounds so _sincere_. Jack aches to believe him. "But I'm locked out of Arcadia, and you're not the only one who needs me right now. All I can do is try to make the road easier for you."

 

It's not in Jack's nature to feel sulky, or resentful. At least, he doesn't think it is, though it's possible he might be mistaken. But the feelings strike him as foreign, uncomfortable, and that seems as good a reason as any to decide they don't suit him. Atlas has obligations to others; that makes sense. The man still finds time for Jack despite all those others, and nothing else should matter.

 

"You still there?"

 

Jack stirs, pulling the radio a bit closer. "Nowhere else to be." Out of sight, the Splicers jabber; he shuts them out as best as he can.

 

"You could try getting down from that ledge of yours." Irritation creeps into Atlas' voice and Jack responds by not responding. There is a part of him that very firmly believes he deserves better than this. He's not sure if it's right, or even where the conviction comes from, only that it tells him he doesn't have to reply. He can stay where he is for as long as he wants, and a radio can't make him budge.

 

Eventually, Atlas gives in. "Might have been a bit short with you," he says. "I shouldn't have done that."

 

_No_ , Jack thinks, vindicated. _You shouldn't have_.

 

"Exactly how long are you planning on staying there? You can't be comfortable, and those Splicers know where you are. They're not going anywhere."

 

"They can _wait_." Patience is something he thinks might be a part of him. It comes naturally, in way that feels coded into his insides. He can wait longer than the Splicers if he needs to.

 

"Boyo, would you-" Atlas makes an aggravated sound that Jack decides he could get used to. "Stubborn as a mule, you are. Right, let's do it your way then. What do you need? Supplies? A map? I think I could manage that, there must be one lying around here somewhere-"

 

"Talk to me," Jack says simply. "Tell me things."

 

_Tell me a story_ echoes in the back of his mind; another trailing end of memory that makes no sense to him. His mother is- isn't she a farmer? Solid, reliable, utterly unmemorable. All the fairy tales he knows are in German. How strange that is. Where would she have learnt it?

 

"Oh, you'd like to hear about all the things I should be doing at this particular moment? I'll list them for you, if it'll make you feel any better. Get yourself comfortable, we'll be here a while." There's nothing particularly cutting in Atlas' tone; if anything, he just sounds resigned.

 

"No. Nothing...nothing to do with Rapture. I don't know."

 

"You want me to tell you it's going to be alright?" Atlas asks wearily. "Is that what you want? Suppose I've told worse lies in my time, and I'll say it if that's what you need to hear."

 

Jack doesn't know what to say to that. Atlas is a riddle he has no hope of solving, and so often the things he says just don't make sense. But the same could be said with everything in Rapture.

 

"Listen," Atlas tells him. "It'll get _better_ , I can promise you that. Once we've killed that bastard Ryan we can start putting things back the way they were before. You'll see Rapture as she used to be. And I'm telling you now, Jack, you've never seen anything like her."

 

He believes that. He has to. Things _will_ improve with Atlas in charge, which means that the things he does are important, necessary, and so ultimately forgivable.

 

(Jack isn't sure who should be forgiving him; the part of him that refuses to harvest the little girls also tells him to be cautious around Splicers, and avoid them if possible. Avoid having to hurt them any worse than they've already hurt themselves. He doesn't know where this voice comes from, but it speaks with a German accent and tells him he's doing well. There aren't many people who say that; he's inclined to trust it.)

 

"That helps," he says at last. "I think I might be ready to get moving again." He feels a little warmer, fits a little easier inside his own skin. He can breathe again. It's not perfect, but it'll do.

 

Atlas seems to agree. "That so? Well, there's a pneumo up ahead on your left; I'm sending you a health kit, maybe a couple of other things you might need. Don't let your supplies run low, you hear?"

 

"I don't need a health kit," Jack points out. "I'm only hurt inside my head."

  
"Take the goddamn bandages, would you?" Atlas says irritably. "It's called forward planning; you don't need them _now_ , but later you might, and all I'll have for you then is an 'I told you so'."

 

He cares, Jack realises. Atlas cares, and this is the only way he can show it. There are people who need him to lead them in their war against Andrew Ryan, and still he takes time to send Jack _bandages_.

 

Just like that, the shadows aren't as dark anymore. The room is larger, brighter, and the Splicers are a temporary nuisance he can clear without trouble. And he will; they're standing between him and the pneumo.

 

"Thank you," he says, picking the radio up with steady hands. "For everything."

 

Atlas' laughter is a static hiss that Jack stores in the back of his mind for emergencies. "You've got nothing to thank me for, Jack, believe me. Now get a move on. And would you kindly take care of yourself? Mind out for those Houdini Splicers, they're nasty little beasts. There's an apiary in the Farmer's Market, if you're feeling adventurous; they might have some of that Swarm plasmid lying around. I'd tell you what it does, but I don't think you'd believe me. Still. Nothing like a spot of revenge, is there?"

 

Jack isn't sure he agrees. He kills because the Splicers don't leave him any choice; it's them or him, and he has a job to do. Revenge is for people like Atlas, who know who they are and where they stand, and will fight to keep it that way. Jack isn't angry like Atlas is. He doesn't really want his enemies to hurt.

 

They'll talk about this, he decides. When they finally meet (he pictures it and something inside him _aches_ ), there will be a great many things to discuss. He's been right before; he frees the children, the little girls with the golden eyes who thank him and flee to their burrows. And there's still enough ADAM to keep him functioning, if he's careful. He'll tell Atlas this. Why should the revolution be bloody? If Ryan has to die, then Jack will kill him for Atlas, but he thinks to himself that it should be the _end_. No more after Ryan. There'll be another way, if they look for it.

 

"I'm going now," he says. "Don't leave me." It's nice to finally say it out loud.

 

"I've been there from the start, boyo. And I'm staying until this is all over, you can count on that."

 

Jack secures the radio to his belt and glances over the edge of his retreat. The Splicers are still there, still snarling and shoving each other at ground level, their eyes fixed on the ledge. They see him and shriek; he curls his fingers and launches a fireball right into the middle of the group. After that, disposing of them is child's play.

 

He finds his bandages in the pneumo where Atlas sent them, along with the rest of the supplies he apparently feels Jack might need. An EVE hypo, a jar of painkillers, a flask of chilled coffee. A large block of chocolate, its wrapper unbroken. Completely unnecessary; the space would have been better used for bullets. Jack tears it open, shoves about a quarter of it directly into his mouth, and finds his outlook on life has improved significantly.

 

Arcadia is full of shadows, but Jack has a friend on the radio and pockets stuffed to bursting with bandages. He'll be alright.

 

Atlas is waiting for him.


End file.
